


the coldest nights (are the warmest with you)

by nochanchu



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fluff, Post-Graduation, Slice of Life, it's just really fluffy and soft th, uhhh not much else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 19:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nochanchu/pseuds/nochanchu
Summary: It’s nights like these that feel the warmest in his arms.





	the coldest nights (are the warmest with you)

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask me how this simple fluff wound up four-thousand words; i'm still trying to figure that out myself.

As the bus doors hiss open to its final stop of the evening, she suddenly feels even more tired than before. 

She’s used to hard days, even the occasional bad days, but today was, as much as she hates to recollect on it, a particularly shitty one. She can’t shake thoughts of the inevitable, of what she has been asked constantly— _ “are you going to work as a waitress forever?” “when are you getting a real job?” “do you think you can make a career off of writing?” _ —and all she can say is she doesn’t know, she never knows, she won’t know until something happens, whatever the fuck that may be. Because this isn’t certain, none of it is. The best thing she can do is wait and wait and wait, however long that may be. 

Her grip on the brown paper bag tightens and the thermos presses harder into her chest, though she doesn’t care much for the slight burn of the ventilated metal.

Each of her steps take her down a path she hasn’t walked along in a few months, not since Chanyeol told her about obtaining this new recording space. She remembers how he pressed his lips to hers chastely and then passionately because he couldn’t bear to keep his excitement down, and she remembers kissing him back and letting him spin her in an embrace.

It’s been amazing to think back on the timeline of their relationship, now more than ever when she considers where they started. Friends with mutual friends who saw the vestiges of a beginning neither of them would have conceived in their junior year of college. Her least of all, until that night by the bar on the upcoming block, where Chanyeol had mistaken her for Sooyoung, their wingwoman, and how he confessed his feelings for practice for a later occasion that never really came. At the time, she hadn’t considered her feelings for Chanyeol—not yet at least—until his confession. She never imagined him liking her in that way, mainly because she hadn’t considered getting into any relationships altogether. 

To her, romantic relationships were a hassle—an investment that she wasn’t sure she was ready to invest the time for. Friends were different. Friends were friends. They were an integral part of her life for their support and care that while a significant other could offer, she didn’t feel the pressure of presentation with her friendships. She was herself. She was bare-faced, comfortable clothes wearing, dressed up, vulgar, opinionated, and just about everything under the damn sun with them and they appreciated it all, and with them, there were no worries about turning someone off. Sure, they could have discussions and debates, but at the end of the day, she shared a beautiful relationship with her friends, and upon learning about Chanyeol’s feelings for her, she was grateful to him for being so patient with her. 

She didn’t know what to do at first. One part of her feared the loss of a friendship with Chanyeol if she decided not to return his feelings. Another part of her wondered what things would be like with him, because they had always had an easygoing dynamic. And overall, she had no idea in the least what to do. She couldn’t decide. 

He said that was okay. He said that even if she didn’t know what she wanted to do right away, he was content with sticking around until she did, no pressure, just support, because that was Chanyeol for you. Whether what she wanted was platonic or romantic, she had been certain that he would’ve stayed regardless; him confirming that only made her feel a little better. 

He didn’t push for more, and that struck her. She didn’t realize how much she appreciated that until she thought back to past lovers. These were the ones that lasted only a few months at a time, who only wanted more on their own time and didn’t account for hers. Whether they got what they wanted or not, they left by the end of it, and to be honest, it stung. Much of that made her question her own place in relationships, and whether she was at fault for the downfalls of past ones or not, because there were times where she considered the things she could’ve done right to get them to stay, but somehow Chanyeol showed her that it wasn’t just up to her to get someone to stick around—the other person has to  _ want _ to stick around too. 

It took her a month to figure out what she wanted. She remembers how she confessed as he carried her on his back after she drunkenly tumbled off the play structure with only a scrape on her knee and how she repeated the confession the morning after she took his bed. Because his apartment was the closest from the group’s favorite bar at the time, she told him on the steps of the building that she was passing by that they had their first date—he bought her ice cream and let her take the perfect snapshot of it just to nurse her nasty hangover and desire to capture the moment. 

Then, it took several months to an  _ I love you _ . The very timbre of his laugh became her favorite song out of everything in his arsenal, but she blurted it out and he hugged her tight said he loved her too, more than anything in this whole world. ( _ “Even music?” she asked, teasingly. He said ‘maybe’ and she went wide-eyed. _ ) 

A year and a half to move into together. Something he said in passing before offering to look at places with her when she casually agreed. Somehow they found an apartment, pretty far from their old studios, but cheaper and worthwhile. 

And, two years to be here, comfortable and content. With each other, at least. 

Life in and of itself has always been hard. She wrote and he made music, but neither of these things brought a lot of money on table. They worked side jobs (read: “practical” jobs) and that paid the bills, but finding the time for crafting was the real challenge. Neither of them knew when inspiration would strike, whether that was during her day job or the freelance one she took on to stay close to her writing roots, or Chanyeol during his assistant job at the radio station or when Chanyeol has a few hours to spare at the new studio. 

Chanyeol was having better luck in that department; with some of his songs getting sold here and there, some producers even considering him as a prospective pupil under their wing for the bigger and better things they’ve been hoping for. Which meant more nights at the studio—a safe haven for him, a place that he could finally call his own. His studio was no longer just the cramped, well-insulated closet that he used to occupy up until he realized he couldn’t keep working there. She didn’t mind, even rooted for this next step into his future, and she’s still rooting for him. While his long nights away leave him sorely missed, she can’t help but feel a swell of pride and joy in knowing that he’s proving people wrong. 

Her and Chanyeol have been creators for as long as they could remember, something they both relished in as hobbies and eventually taking up as occupations, because this is what they’re good at. She feels blessed to know that he understands what it means to create and put your all into something, even when it comes at the cost of judgement and doubt. Hell, writing, as valued as it’s made to be, has often posed issues between her, prospective lovers, and family members who often asked her why she hadn’t just taken up something that would get her more money instead of “wasting time,” but not Chanyeol.   


She likes to believe, mainly because of Chanyeol, she isn’t wasting time, that the student loans she accumulated won’t bury her with their accruing interest, that the publishers she’s submitted work to will get back to her with positive news, that the graduate schools she applied to will give her a second glance, and that the school she had gone to wasn’t a mistake imposed upon her by her family because it was close and convenient. She likes to believe that, well, she wouldn’t be a complete failure after all the years she spent planning and mapping out these years of her life. 

 

* * *

When the studio’s familiar, incandescent gleam materializes before her, she finally feels like she can breathe. 

Namjoon, Chanyeol’s right-hand man, greets her at the door. She instantaneously hugs him and runs a hand through his mint-haired locks, still not over the change but somehow finding it befitting for him and the new chapter beginning for him and Chanyeol. “M’so glad you’re here,” he says just a little too fast, but far too tired to care.

“Well, go eat and rest,” she replies, knowing a little too well that he’s probably going to walk over to the diner two blocks over because of the cute waitress that almost always serves him there. “Try scoring her number this time, yeah?”

“Whatever.” He smiles at her, warning her that Chanyeol’s in the zone, before departing. 

Her presence goes unnoticed inside the studio, as expected. She simply places the thermos, still warm as ever, and the paper bag onto the space of Namjoon’s former spot and waits. 

She watches Chanyeol as his gaze remains planted on the screen, listens to the unfamiliar melodies of the song blasting through his headphones, enjoying its progression even though she can’t pinpoint the same flaws that he does. She still finds herself drawn to his process, immersive and meticulous as it is, because of  _ him _ ; the same determined man she has come to love over the past two years. 

To say the least, Chanyeol has always been a dreamer, always yearned for more, and “more” for him at first was something as simple as purchasing new equipment. It probably wasn’t until obtaining his own space that “more” became a hope for bigger and better. “More” wasn’t just the latest equipment; it was recording songs, creating beats, writing lyrics. It became perfecting what was already good, because he aimed for flawless. 

His work always struck her as a mish-mash of anything and everything, of a genre that she could not simplify. Her bias went beyond just enjoying everything he did, it was truly experiencing these pieces for what they offered. What always stayed in her mind with every piece was the fact that he put bits of himself into it, and she knows, as a creator like him, what that’s like firsthand. She knows the painstaking notions of putting her heart and soul into her work, and always hoping that the message reaches someone—that the hard work is recognized. 

This line of work is hard. It can be so fucking vicious when you let it all eat up at you, and even though neither of them say it, they appreciate each other for understanding what it’s like to hope and hope and  _ hope _ . Even when the outcome can be nothing but a bare minimum of words from an audience they expected way too much from, but knowing how much people are receiving his works makes her heart swell, because he deserves it. 

She hears him say her name. 

Chanyeol’s voice sounds hoarse and deeper than usual, probably from lack of use and fatigue creeping in. She wishes she could take him back to bed and rid him from the purplish hues underneath his eyes, but she doesn’t want to take him away from work. 

She smiles, and in a tone aiming for teasing, but probably looking more tired, she says, “Now you notice me.” 

He frowns a little. 

“Sorry, got caught up. I thought you’d be home by now.” He fully turns toward her and rises to walk over. This excites her, even if she didn’t mean to take him away from his work. 

“You can keep working. Don’t let me distract you,” she warns him before rising as well. 

“Nonsense. You came all the way here,” he says, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in close. 

He manages to plop them both down to the couch before she can say another word, positioning them where her head can reside atop of his chest and they can curl together. She instantaneously leans into his touch without regards to her previous statement because she relishes in everything he so effortlessly offers her—his warmth, his scent, him. 

This reminds her of how long it’s been since they’ve shared a moment like this. At least now that she’s coherent enough to register his touch, she’s certain that she has felt the ghost of it in a half-asleep stupor at godforsaken hours of the night, but what with all his free hours spent here, she’s seen him less and less. The only chance she has is the first few minutes of waking when she looks to her right and sees him beside her before they have to part ways for work. 

She blurts out, “I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too.” He pauses, and she can feel him looking at her now. “What’s wrong?” 

“I—” She stops, trying to recollect the thoughts she’s been mulling over. She knows there’s no lying to him, not even a white lie could convince him. “I’m tired, Chan.” It’s the best way to summate everything. 

“Sleepy tired or tired in general?”

“Both. Mostly of work. Of waiting to hear back from publishers and grad school programs. Of everyone’s questions about what I’m doing, because I have no fuckin’ clue. You know people ask me as if I have the answer to that one goddamn question that’s supposed to make up the rest of my life. They’ll ask me why didn’t I switch over to something else, why I’m being so stubborn about what I want to do, but I can’t help it. I’m not cut out for other things like math and science. I know this is not what will bring money to the table, that the kind of nine to five I’m working is the horror story you tell your kids about pursuing anything but STEM, but I’m good at writing, at telling stories that others can’t, and I’m trying I—I swear—” Somehow it feels like everything she’s been trying to dial down is spilling over. 

She didn’t realize how bad it was. She always figured it would fade out into existence eventually, and all those worries about post-graduate life would be nothing but a mere bump in the road. This felt more like a major sinkhole ready to swallow her whole. 

He holds her face up, caressing her cheeks. 

Everything feels less heavy when she’s with him. Like all the noise mutes over as she meets his gaze, because when she sees those warm eyes, she knows it will all be okay somehow. 

“I know, baby. You are trying. I know you are.  _ You  _ know you are. Those people that tell you otherwise don’t mean shit, because they don’t know what you go through behind closed doors. How much you adore writing and the kind of wonderful things that come from your work. Or how you get so fired up about a subject and there’s nothing stopping you from making a point or researching something until you fully understand it so you can relay it back to the person you were talking to about it. Those people who doubt you and your capabilities only know what they see, and all they’re seeing is the very bare minimum, because if  _ I _ were a publisher, I would’ve done a contract with you ages ago. And, if I were a grad school, I’d sure as hell give you the best scholarship to attend.” 

She chuckles, enjoying the way she can feel his heartbeat against her. “You’re biased, but thank you.” 

“I mean every word and you know that. If I could announce to the world that my girlfriend is the most creative and capable writer who deserves to teach students so they can be instilled with that same joy, then I would, a million, bajillion times over and over again until my voice goes hoarse.”

“Really?” she asks softly.

He nods. 

She can tell he still has more to say, so she waits.

His hands opt to stroke her hair. “I tell my friends any chance I get that you’re gonna hit the bestseller list—they may or may not have it memorized by now, but still. I mean it. You are so talented. You are hardworking and dedicated. Even though things aren’t happening right away; they  _ will _ happen. Things take time. And if there are some detours or even other paths that pop up, then it must be for the best, but I truly believe that you will publish at least one book and grad school is gonna accept you. I hope you know that.”

“I know.” In an even smaller voice, she says, “I just get scared, you know? I don’t wanna fail. I don’t wanna prove those people right. I wanna be able to say that despite all the setbacks, it was all worth it in the end.”

“It’s okay to be scared. I think we all are. You know I am. I work like crazy, but that’s only because I don’t wanna lose out on my shot to do better for us. I wanna do the very best that I can, so I can say I tried even if I don’t make it where I want to be.”

“Huh?” she asks, trying to meet his eyes. 

“I don’t know whether where I want to be in a few years will stay the same or if it’ll change some time down the road. What if other things come up? Like we have to move or someone needs help or something. God forbid, no one gets sick or anything like that, but at the very least, even if I totally bomb after a few more songs, I think I’d be satisfied knowing that I tried my hardest to get to that dream of having an album at first before taking a different path. I don’t want to live with regrets, so I think this is a good way to about things. 

“Plus, success can be defined and re-defined in a number of ways. Sometimes ‘success’ is getting that one book published or having an album out. Whatever reception either of those receive might not be what we expect, but I guess the accomplishment of making something happen should count for something. There really is no marker of success unless you define it so, and I might sound like I’m talking out of my ass right now, but I mean, those self-help books you leave lying around really are helpful.”

She laughs again, really looking at him this time. 

As solemn as he sounded, the smile on his face makes her chest tight in a non-painful way. It’s like her heart just wants to remind her of just how much she loves him, and she clings to him even tighter than before, now nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck.

“I’m glad I came. It feels like it’s been too long since I’ve seen you and talked to you like this,” she mentions, letting out a small sigh, “And, I know it seems like I’ve gotten comfortable,” she laughs, “but I really don’t mind if you go back to work, I swear. I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

He says after a while, “You know, I’ve been working so much I didn’t even ask you how you’ve been—you had to come all the way over to me from work just to talk, I’m really, really sorry—” 

She shakes her head fervently. “Don’t be. There’s nothing you should feel sorry about, okay? I’m happy you’re working. I’m glad one of us is. I’ve just been in my head too much. But being here with you makes me feel better. Watching you work—which you should do—·makes me happy.” 

He sighs, muttering under his breath about how stubborn she is. She smiles a little. 

“I also needed the peace of mind that you’re eating properly, so I brought you some food. Chowder in the thermos and some sourdough rolls in the paper bag. The bread’s probably not the best right now after I trucked through two blocks of cold, but still.”

“I’ll love it,” he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you.”

She smiles against his chest. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you want to hear the song I’ve been working on?” 

“What?” she asks, blinking at him.

When Chanyeol’s in his chair, that means business; she knows more than anyone else how much he values his time. To waste any precious minute sidetracked is the equivalent of blowing a song’s progress. It’s harsh, though he’s never told her to leave him alone—she knows when to leave him be just as he knows how to leave her be when the inspiration bug bites her. But for some reason, he turns his attention to her and away from the screen. 

He repeats the question this time punctuated with a small laugh, because she must look confused more than ever. 

“You can focus on your work, you know. I don’t want to distract you.” 

“Pfft.” His lips turn upward, enough for his cheekbones to become more prominent. “You aren’t distracting me. I’d actually appreciate some fresh ears right now. Joon must’ve been going insane, because I’ve been playing the same loop for the past half and a half.” She probably doesn’t look convinced, because he adds, “I promise you aren’t distracting me. I  _ want  _ you to hear this. You don’t have to move either. I can see how tired you are right now.”

“Chan—” She sighs, feeling a teensy bit curious. How long has it been since she’s heard a demo of his anyway? “Are you sure?”

He nods. “Really. I almost feel like you need to hear it.” 

This intrigues her. 

“Alright.” 

She doesn’t know what to expect at first. Listening to Chanyeol’s music has always been a commonality; his music is an extension of him, of his soul, and it’s never anything that sounds or feels like the same thing twice, thrice, or whatever. It’s always different, always touching her in ways that she can’t quite place, because he is  _ him _ . He is talented, beautiful, and touching all the same. He is the warmth she seeks when nights are cold, when nights like this threaten to keep her up despite all the fatigue that eats at her. 

The beat is slow at first, a small yet haunting sound that strikes her upon the first few seconds. It continues to reverberate across her chest, louder and yet calming as his voice softly fills the room,  _ “Can’t you see?” _ It’s like an audible whisper, as if he’s asking her instead of the imaginary listener, so she shuts her eyes and hopes to picture the next lines. 

_ “The moon rises and the sun falls for nights like this/For these moments we call our own,” _ Namjoon joins in, still keeping the tranquil melody and helping her conjure a memory from the first time they invited her to the studio. It wasn’t the first time she had scene it or seen them in action, but it was the first time they had worked so effortlessly without the hiccups of a four-by-four foot space. Or the first night in the apartment. It’s small, no doubt, but having something to call your own—priceless, unforgettable. They had ached for things to call their own, for successes that would fight against doubt and adversity, and slowly but surely, they were doing exactly that.   


She can’t stop the smile imprinting deeper on her face, how much she wishes she could just reach over and grab Chanyeol’s hand when he sings,  _ “When you are alone and it feels like I’m too far/I’m here, I’m holding your hand, your heart” _ —she wanted to tell him that it was true, that even with hours apart from one another, she had no doubt that his love supplemented her focus and efforts and that if there was one place to call home, it was always going to be a place with him. 

_ “All for us,” _ she remembers he once told her. At the end of the day, everything they did was for their future together, for them to say that they did what they could, and that’s all that matters. She could work at the diner or she could enter graduate school to get another goddamn degree, maybe both, maybe neither. She was trying—she knew that, even a small, minute part— and Chanyeol knew that too. She didn’t need to get signed with a publishing house yet, though it would be nice, she didn’t need it right away. She didn’t even need the recognition of her family to give her what she had now, because no one but Chanyeol could give her something as special as this. 

This might have been her favorite line for more than obvious reasons:  _ “All for nights like this.”  _

Nights like this; ones where she can leave behind her worries and be here, present with someone who loves her and her passions without considering the benefits that come with her, someone who cares to live for and in the moment without getting caught up in that social media bullshit, someone who is the one and only,  Park Chanyeol. 

He stays through the trials, tribulations, happiness, and peace; he helps, cares, and tries, lives with all that he can. He inspires her and even at the possible forfeit of his own productivity, he asks her to stay with a gentle smile on his face—even as sleep overtakes her without hesitation after the first play of the song.

 

* * *

She doesn’t remember how long she laid on that couch even after Chanyeol got up to eat and went back to work. She vaguely recalls him telling her to stay, so they can both go home together, but she doesn’t ever remember getting woken up to leave. 

What she feels beside her in the warmth that once surrounded her within the first hour of her arrival. This is the very warmth that carries the ability to soothe and heal the ache in her mind and soul. And, while she wakes to a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead and limbs entangled in a small space, she doesn’t worry about falling off the couch when she knows all too well who has her waist locked into place and keeps her right there on the edge—the comfortable kind. 

She doesn’t know what time it is, nor does she care to reach for her phone inside the pocket of her hanging jacket off by a nearby chair. She doesn’t really care whatever the time may be, because right now, she feels the weightlessness of contentment. Even with an uncertain future, she knows she’ll be okay. 

With Chanyeol helping her stay afloat, she knows she’ll be okay. 

She feels his arms come back around her frame again. He gives her a squeeze (“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he seems to say), and she does the same thing back (“I know, and I appreciate you,” she wants to say). 


End file.
